


Dearly Departed

by Glittermonkey (Schizanthus)



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus/pseuds/Glittermonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sad, sad loss. Death, destruction, and small rodents. Coming to grips with losing someone can be very <br/>difficult. Or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearly Departed

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to ff.net back in 1/29/2003.
> 
> Vignette with manic-depressive tendencies. Rated G, maybe PG for second degree murder. Ain't mine, dammit. Please don't hurt me.

LONDON CEMETARY -- MORNING -- 1973

"We are united today in a sense of loss and grief, a profound anguish, for we have suffered an incalculable loss. It is right and proper that we grieve..."

The slight figure in the long black velvet trench coat sighed piteously, clenching a fashionably matching hat to his chest. His head, a singular splotch of bright blue colour amongst the drably clad crowd, was still bowed long after the opening prayer had ended. Possibly to hide the inevitable and unwanted tears.

"...I do not pretend to offer any answers to the very apparent unfairness of this, for mysterious are the ways..."

His fault, chanted the deafeningly silent berate. It had all happened because he had been too damned busy basking in the limelights to take care of the things that had truly mattered. This death had been due as much to negligence as it had been to chemical causes. He stared numbly at the pathetic little hole in the ground. All that was left. His fault.

"...struck down in the bloom of his youth by a lethal overdose of both misery and heroin..."

How much time had they had? He bit back another sob. Not nearly long enough. Especially after all the effort he'd spent pursuing lead after lead until they'd finally met. He'd invested so much -- gone to ridiculous lengths in securing comfortable lodgings, ordered the best available catering, sent out the limos, hired the trendiest stylists to keep him groomed, spent long nights murmuring lavish endearments... anything and everything in an effort to win his affections. He had truly hoped they would have so many more years, possibly grow old together. Anything but this. Where had he gone wrong?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

BIJOU OFFICES -- TWO WEEKS EARLIER -- 1973

"...happy birthday to you!"

As the cheerful collection of off-tune voices finished their song, Brian brought the small wrapped box he'd been hiding out from under his chair. He handed it to Curt and watched anxiously as the ribbon and paper went flying in a matter of seconds.

Curt lifted the lid and peered inside, a bewildered expression creeping across his face. Reaching his hand in, he pulled out a large furry rodent, dangling it by its tail as he examined it in mute fascination and bafflement.

"Uhhh... it's a rat." He watched the animal squirm around for a while, then let it drop back into the box and raised an eyebrow at his lover. He'd come to expect some pretty cockamamie things from Brian, but never let it be said that he'd come even close to exhausting his ability to be surprised.

Brian grabbed the box back from him, looking slightly offended. He picked up the creature carefully and patted its head before perching it on his shoulder. "His name is Cyril, and he happens to be the only purebred angora hooded rat in existence. I went to great trouble finding a breeder that had exactly what I was looking for. I won't even mention how much it cost me."

"No, please don't."

Giving him a quick frown, Brian continued. "I thought it would be appropriate, seeing that your last musical experiment started with the appearance of a rat as well. Think of him as a good luck charm." Once again, he offered the rodent to Curt. "He has a very sweet temperament, too. See?"

Beady little eyes stared at him. Curt furrowed his brow and shook his head. "It's... a... rat."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

RANDOM SHARED BEDROOM -- ONE WEEK LATER -- 1973

Keying open the door as quietly as he could, Brian tiptoed in and dropped his luggage to one side. He shrugged off his coat and continued discarding various articles of clothing as he made his way to the large occupied bed that took up half of the floor space in the room. This past weekend's press conference in Germany had been less than fun, and he was glad to be home.

Emptying his pockets, Brian came across a packet of peanuts he'd kept from his earlier flight. He headed over to the little brass bird cage sitting on the nightstand, figuring that Curt's new pet might like a snack. He emptied the nuts into a little plastic bowl, then poked the soundly sleeping rodent. It didn't wake up. Slightly troubled by the lack of response, he gave the animal another jab in the ribs. Nothing.

Brian took a step back, feeling rather shaken. How could this have happened? He'd only left for a few days and now poor Cyril, his thoughtfully symbolic birthday gift, seemed to be stone dead. He reached over and shook Curt awake.

"Mmmrrgggh. Stoppit."

"Curt? Curt! Wake up. Cyril's dead."

"Wha?" A pair of groggy eyes regarded Brian uncomprehendingly.

"He's dead. What did you do to him?"

"Dead? Huh?"

"Didn't you feed him?"

"Feed? Oh, right," Curt pulled himself upright, massaging the back of his neck distractedly. "Yeah, I fed him. Beer and chips. Just last night."

Slumping into a nearby armchair, Brian stared at Curt in horrified wonder.

"Didn't seem real hungry, though," Curt added helpfully. He stopped, considering the events of last night. "Was prolly still high on the smack..." He reached over and gave the catatonic Cyril a nudge. "Hey, Rat, wake up!"

Brian emitted a moan of despair.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

LONDON CEMETARY -- LATER IN THE MORNING -- 1973

"In these dark hours we need to hear a word from God..."

He felt a nudge at his side. It was followed by what was probably meant as a whisper, but the words managed to carry quite clearly in the crisp morning air. "Uhh... Brian? How much longer is this going to take?" Curt was giving him a look which could best be described as bored irritation.

Brian shot him a harsh look, deliberately shrugged away from him, and motioned for the service to be finished. He watched silently as the small polished oak shoebox was lowered into the ground, then turned to leave. Grabbing Curt by the arm, he set a brisk pace to the row of black cars waiting to take them home.

Ducking into the back seat of the lead vehicle, Brian watched a puzzled Curt sit down across from him. He kept his scowl in place for a few seconds more, until the look on Curt's face gradually melted from peeved confusion to anxious concern.

"Look," Curt started. "I didn't mean to kill it... it just looked so uptight, running on that stupid wheel all day... I just thought a hit might loosen it up a little..." He gave a helpless shrug.

The glare continued.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

The glare wavered. He could not maintain his dour expression any longer. The sheer absurdity of the situation just couldn't be denied. Brian burst into a fit of snickering, holding up his hands in an unsuccessful effort to fend off Curt as he was tackled to the floor.

"Next time," Brian remarked after catching his breath, "we're sticking to the potted plants."

-finis-

**Author's Note:**

> Like most of my more eccentric pieces, this here blip can be blamed on the insufferable Ophie -- and possibly an impromptu trip to the pet shop one fine spring afternoon...


End file.
